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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26706196">Amuse me, O muse</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/her_name_was_sylvia/pseuds/her_name_was_sylvia'>her_name_was_sylvia</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Ancient Greek Religion &amp; Lore, The Iliad - Homer, The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Ancient Greece, Everyone Is Gay, F/F, M/M, No Lesbians Die, Useless Lesbians</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 06:22:18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,686</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26706196</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/her_name_was_sylvia/pseuds/her_name_was_sylvia</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Beltis (Bel), an imagined character, a minor noblewoman learning to dance on the isle of Scyros meets someone unusual in her dance class: Achilles, the best of the greeks. A fast friendship leads her across oceans, into battles, and maybe will even help her finally get a girlfriend.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Achilles/Patroclus of Opus (Ancient Greek Religion &amp; Lore)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. A Dance</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A flute sounds, and the frozen line of girls breaks into a river of skirts, red, flowing. Slender arms with shapely wrists are twisting, twisting. The flute and the lute twirl around each other like a pair of fighters circling, like a pair of lovers, entangled like our wrists that cross and uncross as you, despite yourself, lean closer to feel the wind our spinning generates. You watch as we fade, become the pretty-yet-uninteresting scenery we are training to become some day, and she steps forward. Her black curls have been skillfully arranged atop her head, save two dangling strands that frame her handsome face. You could not call her pretty— her cheekbones are too jutting, her gaze too severe. She is beautiful, the kind of beauty that makes you ache inside. And then she starts to dance, and you melt. The movement is unbearable: the sway of her hips, the controlled flick of her wrist, and her face, her face, do you dare to look? The scraping of tooth on bottom lip, the lowered head and raised gaze is too much, you cannot stand it any longer, but you also cannot bear for the moment to end. The flute sends the last high, shimmering note to the heavens as she freezes, head bowed and arms raised for your applause. And in a twirl of skirts we are gone, out the great door, and you return to over-indulging on wild boar and honeyed dates, discussing wars and trades and the worlds of men.</p><p>I pad down the darkened hallway to my room. I have always appreciated the silence of bare feet on stone floors. I know better than to watch her, and really, I have no need to. I can feel her, a few feet behind, a tingling, glowing presence. She is always quiet. I’m not sure if it is fear or envy or resentment, but we give the princess a healthy distance. I too, am given distance. I silently absorb and judge the titters of the other girls: “Did you guys see when I just about flashed the whole fucking palace?” “I messed up the andante so badly, I was like, sure is good I’m in the back row” They laugh and joke and boast and I feel the familiar disgust and envy and confusion. I recognize they are speaking some sort of code. That they say things they don’t really mean, and respond to what has not been said. I don’t know which came first— the feeling of detachment, or the ostracization. I go into my room, and listen for the princess slipping into hers next door. </p><p>I am on the cusp of sleep when I hear the princess’s door open. Then whispers, giggles. Who? I’m jealous, hurt and curious. She chose someone. She didn’t choose me. When I hear a low voice, a man’s, I am relieved and disappointed in one. She didn’t choose me, but at least she didn’t choose someone like me. Impossibility is decent comfort for unrequited pining. It could never have been. </p><p>I sleep fitfully and wake early. I sneak out to run before breakfast. It is dark, but the birds are already singing. I thank my Gods that, flawed as it might be, at least this island is beautiful. And that “security” is not really a thing for this isolated palace. Out the window and across the field to the forest. The grass is wet with dew and sticks to my feet. I slip off my dress, exchange it for one of the tunics I keep on the knot of the olive tree. I am the only one who comes here. The other girls sneak out, but they have better places to go than a forest. The midnight jaunts to the nearby village or the stables or the soldier's barracks are narrated in animated whispers over morning dance lessons. </p><p>It is not any particular affinity for life, but only a vague curiosity of what tomorrow might bring that prevents me from throwing myself off one of the many jagged cliffs. I plant my palm against the rough bark of the tree, then push off. My mother used to tell me to start slow, ease my way into the task, and it would become easier over time. But why take advice from someone who lived without joy and died young? Instead, I run as fast as I can, until I feel like I’m going to throw up, stop and catch my breath, and take off again. It is painful, but at least it is a pain I control.</p><p> I make it through my little forest, past the stadium and to a cliff overlooking the sea. The sun is still not up, but the fogs are lifting. I scramble down the rocky cliff and leap, feet first into the sea. I let my tunic slide off over my head, and fling it onto the rocks. My entire body is electrified. This is it, I say, this is what it means to be alive. I dive under the water, twisting my body the way I imagine a dolphin might. I feel the waves, their power to toss my entire body forward and back, and I feel my legs beneath me, fighting to keep my head above the water. As the first streaks of dawn appear over the horizon, I pull myself onto the rocks. It is four times as cold as the water was, and I shiver violently as I wring out my sodden tunic, and make my way back up the cliff, wet feet slipping on loose rocks.</p><p>By the time I make it back to my nightdress, dangling from the olive tree, the wind has dried all but my hair. I pull the dress over my head, and cross the wet grass to my room. I see them in her window. A figure with gold hair, a handsome face and a flat, broad chest, at this moment bared and clearly breastless. They see me and start. We lock eyes and I give them a small nod. A secret for a secret. They nod back. I am grateful, though not grateful enough to forget that Deidamia chose them over me.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Another, less successful dance</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The great hall of the palace is hung with hand stitched tapestries. Mostly, they are the pictures of the Gods, and their battles, and occasionally a mortal who was unfortunate enough to cross them. The bombastic violence and gore was painstakingly hand stitched by some uncredited seamstress. Maybe a widow, or a mother with too many children, hunched over the stiff fabric, needle in hand, bringing to life the faces of the Gods one pixel of thread at a time. The rooms we spend our time in have less adornment. </p><p>If you polish a piece of iron until it shines, you can see the image of yourself in it. If you hammer many pieces of iron to a thin strip, and polish them until they shine, you have the perfect tapestry to hang on the wall of a studio in the finest school of dance in all Greece. It makes the room feel twenty times as large, and quickly breaks any illusions about how gracefully I may have thought I moved. Without natural aptitude, nor any interest in applying myself, dance classes feel like a daily exercise in ritual humiliation. <br/>This morning is no different, though I find I feel heavier than usual. Deidamia is radiant, shining, and never more than step away from the person from last night. Pyrrha, she calls them. Every way I turn, their movements multiply in all directions. She was never mine, I repeat to myself. I can feel sad, but not hurt, because how could she hurt someone she hardly notices. Point your toes, keep your head up, arms extended, but not tensed. I want to throw up, or throw something, or cry. Breathe in, breathe out. Point your toes. Ignore her fingertips brushing Pyrrha’s waist, ignore the way she looks in Pyrrha’s eyes, the way that you used to look at her, why did you stop pointing your goddamn toe, oh fuck me she just touched Pyrrah’s face, how many times have I dreamed of her— shut up she does not belong to you, don’t forget to breathe in and out and don’t let yourself cry and </p><p>“Beltis!” </p><p>Maiden Miriam: tall, graceful and beautiful enough that you don’t question her giving herself the title Maiden. And our tutor. She stares down at me.</p><p>“How many years have you studied at this school?”</p><p>“Two, my lady”</p><p>“You know, I am widely considered the best dancer in all of Greece.”</p><p>“Yes, my lady”</p><p>“Years I haved danced, and years I have trained young girls like you to dance.”</p><p>“Yes, my lady”</p><p>“This dance we are learning, that you apparently are doing, it is not a difficult dance. I have taught it to girls half your age. I’m puzzled. I don’t know whether you are the worst dancer I have ever taught, or just the laziest. Straighten your shoulders, relax your arms and for the love of Zeus almighty point your goddamn toes!”</p><p>“Yes, my lady”</p><p>My head is ringing, and the floor feels like it is shifting under my feet. Most of the other girls allow themselves a little snicker. I feel the distance between me and the rest get a little bit wider. As I look away, Pyrrha catches my eye. Their gaze is intense, but difficult to read. As I try to fade back into the group, and trip over my feet in peace, I feel their eyes following me. Reader, in all my 17 years on this planet, I have never felt more unattractive and inadequate. If I were Deidamia, I know who I’d choose too.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chatting in the Closet</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In the hallways after our lesson, I notice Deidamia is walking alone. I realize someone is standing unusually close to my left shoulder. I look up and meet Pyrrah’s eyes. “I wished to speak with you” they say, in smooth, lightly accented greek. I nod, and slow down, letting the other girls rush past us. I lead Pyrrha down a side hall, and into a storage room, filled with dried fruits and herbs. We stand in awkward silence. I am overly aware of the sound of my own breathing. </p><p>“Prune?” I offer. </p><p>“No, thank you,” they say.</p><p>I take a bite of one myself. I immediately regret it. Does chewing always sound this loud? Pyrrha just stands quietly, watching me eat it. I swallow, (was swallowing always this loud?) and wait for Pyrrha to say something. They do not. Oh dear. I run my tongue across my teeth to clean off the prune, and take a deep breath.</p><p>“You’re a really good dancer,” I say, trying to, well, make small talk, I guess. I realize it’s been a few months since I’d last had anything that could be described as a conversation.</p><p>“Thank you. You are good as well”</p><p>“No, I’m really not.”</p><p>Pyrrha smiles. “No, you really aren’t. I was trying to be nice.”</p><p>“Yeah, I mean, thank you.” This is going well, I think. </p><p>Pyrrha’s smile drops, and they look serious again. “You saw me last night”</p><p>“I did. And you saw me”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“You should know, I really respect you, what you’re doing.”</p><p>“Pardon?” Pyrrha looks deeply shocked.</p><p>“Back home, before I was sent here, I had a friend like you. His parents kicked him out when he cut his hair and started using a different name, and I don’t really know where he is now. But I also saw how miserable it made him, when everyone thought he was a girl. How he didn’t really have any choice but to do what he did. So, like, I’m really glad you can be here, safe and living as the person you are, and I don’t judge you at all for whoever you used to be. And I would never put you in danger by outing you.”<br/>I’d been carefully studying my left thumb as I struggled through the end of my speech. When I glance back up, Pyrrha looks a mix of confused and touched. But mostly they look ashamed.</p><p>“You are a good person.” Pyrrha says. “You remind me of a friend” Their eyes look distant. They squeeze my shoulder and turn to leave.</p><p>“Wait,” I say “Deidamia, I— she deserves the best. She deserves someone like you. I’m, I’m happy for both of you.”</p><p>Pyrrha’s face is blank. “You think too well of people,” they say. They turn and leave. I feel, well, almost happy. Like my falling apart world has somehow landed right side up.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Where Bel does not stop</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The only way to keep running is to forget stopping is an option. If you let yourself think: “hold up, why am I doing this to myself, when I could just as easily not do this?” you will quickly realize that there isn’t really a good reason. And then you won’t be able to think of anything except how much it aches, and how nice it would be to stop running and lie down and never get up. So you don’t let yourself think about that. Instead you think about Pyrrha, and the way they called you a good person. You think about picking up your feet, so you don’t trip on tree roots. You think about the point on the horizon where the sky blurs with the sea, where it looks like if sailed out far enough you’d start sailing up, up, up and never come back down.</p><p>I stop on a hill, overlooking the stadium. Inside, a motley group of teenage boys were being yelled at by a man who sounded like his life had been a series of disappointments. Perhaps I’m projecting. I reach into the crevice at the meeting place of two mossy stones, and pull out my sword. Heck yeah, I’ve got a sword. Rusty and unsharpened, I stole it a few months ago from an unlocked storage shed. Since then, I’ve been learning, or trying to. Already, the sword feels like a natural extension of my arm, and I can move through the drills the boys below are struggling through with ease. My mind slows down as my movements speed up. There is nothing, now, but my breath and body, moving in space. Time is measured by the gradual dull ache in my arms. I know that this is something I am good at. I know that this was what I was born to do.</p><p>I wonder again at the intentions of the Gods with my creation. Everything that in my life feels a curse had been a gift were I not what I am. Though, I know also I would not like to be a man. I just would like a taste of their freedom.</p><p>Walking back through the forest, I resolve to forget about Deidamia. No good can come of that. I have other things I could focus on.</p><p>Days go by, without much change. I spend mornings running and swimming, afternoons swinging a sword I have little hope of ever being allowed to wield. When I see Pyrrha and Deidamia together, I tell myself that I am happy they are happy. I tell myself I believe that. So desperate am I to throw my attention into anything else, that even my dancing improves. I keep moving forward. Gods know how long I could have gone on like this. Forever, perhaps. Other lives have been spent in this same perpetual windmill of avoidance. But fate has other plans. One evening, Pyrrha’s husband arrives.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Deidamia</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>some depression, and also some kissing.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It wasn’t satisfying, the way I’d thought it might be, watching Deidamia’s heart break. Patroclus is young, and not particularly good looking, not that I’m much of a judge. He arrives alone, dropped on our shores with a shipment of dates and an incomplete backstory. Pyrrha does not exactly break things off with Deidamia, at least not in the traditional way. They simply stops acknowledging her existence. No more late night visits. Most afternoons, I see Patroclus and Pyrrha, walking together along the shore, hand in hand. I notice that, away from the palace, Pyrrha prefers to wear loose tunics. If before, Pyrrha seemed unusual, it is now clear that they are extraordinary. Racing along the beach, Pyrrha’s feet are wings, and their husband is left behind, gasping as they fly, golden and glowing, into the distance.</p><p>My original sympathy for Pyrrha is fading. If they had this love, how could they ever have left it? And if they loved this man so much, why get involved with Deidamia, and hurt her so much in the process? And Deidamia. She stops coming to practices, begins wearing veils at all hours. I glimpse her from time to time, walking alone at strange hours. The brighter Pyrrha glows, charming the other girls, dancing the solos, earning a smile from Maiden Miriam, the more Deidamia seems to fade. If Pyrrha had seemed to regret it at all, maybe I could have forgiven them. But they don’t seem to see it at all.</p><p>I redirect my energies to hating Pyrrha. When our eyes meet, I look away. When they try to catch me in a corridor, or gesture me toward that closet where we first spoke, I ignore them. I am not interested in what they have to say, and it is not to me they should be saying it.</p><p>There is something very lonely about losing faith in someone you liked and admired. I wasn’t happy before, but in comparison to how unhappy I feel now, I look back at it with some fondness. The good old days, when the only person on this godforsaken island I kind of liked was fucking the girl I was head over heels in love with. This would have been a good time to retreat into places that comforted me, into doing things I enjoyed, but nothing feels right. I stop waking up early. In the afternoons, I come back to my room and sleep, instead of heading out to practice with my sword. At night, I wake up at strange hours, and am unable to fall back to sleep. I sit on the cold stone floor, because at least feeling cold reminds me that I am indeed alive. I wonder if I’ve somehow lost the ability to feel.</p><p>One morning, I am woken up to hear voices in the hall. One, warm and rich, I recognize as Deidamia. The other is a man’s. Unfamiliar, but with the same accent as Pyrrha. Patroclus, certainly, but the hell is he doing with her? I walk into the hallway. It is deserted. I lean against the door, and listen. </p><p>“I don’t understand.” Deidamia’s voice is light, but strained. “What could you possibly have to offer him that I cannot?” </p><p>“I don’t know, my lady.”</p><p>“I am pregnant. Has he told you that? I am pregnant with his child. What kind of man abandons his pregnant wife for another man?”</p><p>“Deidamia, I, I’m really sorry. He should never have married you, but...”</p><p>“He liked it, you know. The sex. With me. He moaned and groaned and called me beautiful. Did he tell you that?”</p><p>“I don’t know why you asked me here. If you want me to apologize for Achilles, I will, but it will not change what happened, nor what is going to happen”</p><p>“Do you think I’m beautiful?” Her voice is a whisper. “Do you really have no idea why a woman would invite you to her bedroom at a time no one else is around?” </p><p>“Achilles will be looking for me.” </p><p>“He’ll never think to look here.” </p><p>“I’m sorry, Deidamia”</p><p>I barely get out of the way in time as the door opens and Patroclus hurries out. He does not look back.</p><p>A few weeks ago, I wouldn’t have dared. But now, it doesn’t really seem like my life could get much worse. So I go in.</p><p>Deidamia wore a sheer pink robe, and was draped across her bed. I felt fonder of Patroclus, that he had been able to misunderstand such a situation. She looks angry, desperate, but also, very, very alone.</p><p>“Is it alright if I come in?” I whisper. She nods. I shut the door behind me. I walk towards her, hearing her breathing, and my own. I kneel down, so my head is level with hers. We are still, but every part of me is thrumming.</p><p>“I think that you are the most beautiful person on this earth,” I say, my voice barely working. I wait for her to slap me, yell at me to leave, call me disgusting and perverted, tell me that what I want is wrong. But she doesn’t. Instead, she kisses me.</p><p>A long time ago, when I was younger and dumber, I thought there was something wrong with the boys in my village. I had heard that boys were meant to be attractive to girls, and none of the ones I knew were. As I grew older, I figured perhaps the poets had exaggerated. So, when a young man gave me a flower and called me beautiful, I felt flattered, and decided perhaps that was love. I didn’t mind walking through the forest, holding his hand, though I confess I was a lot more interested in the strange bugs and reptiles we came across than his company. It wasn’t until he tried to kiss me that I realized something was wrong. At first, I thought maybe we’d just done it wrong. It mostly felt wet, and frankly kind of gross. When I asked an older cousin, and she confirmed that yes, that was indeed how it was supposed to go, I wrote him a letter explaining I could never see him again, and vowed never to get married. </p><p>Now, however, I understand what the poets were talking about.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. An Allegory about a Cave</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>tw<br/>This chapter (and the next few) are getting a bit dark, and will include some mentions of suicidal ideation. I'll try to be careful, but this kind of stuff can be triggering, and you have a responsiblity to take care of yourself. I'll let you know when you can check back in for some low-stakes fluff.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“You had better go”</p><p>As I slip out of her bed, and gather my clothes from the floor, I can feel her eyes on me, and I feel embarrassed. Whatever momentary recklessness propelled me here has left. As I dress awkwardly and quickly, and she lies there, watching, I know, already, that this wasn’t what was supposed to happen. I realized that, dream about her as much as I did, Deidamia the living, breathing creature is someone I hardly know. She doesn’t move as I go to the door. I turn back. I don’t know what the right thing is to say after you have sex with a princess who rejected trying to revenge fuck her ex’s new boyfriend. “Bye,” is what I go with. She doesn’t reply.</p><p> Back in my room, lying on the bed, I feel empty and anxious and heavy. If time goes on, I can’t tell. I hear movement outside, girls waking up and heading to classes. The idea of doing the same seems laughable. I’m not sure I could get up, even if I wanted to, but I am sure that I don’t want to. I don’t care what the consequences might be, because I know that nothing matters anymore. “You’d better go.” She definitely regretted it. She might even hate me for it. The moment I’d dreamed of for two years had come and gone, and I felt worse than before. I don’t want to move, but existing like this feels intolerable. Everything feels big and loud and like the world is sitting on my chest. I think maybe I am drowning. </p><p>There’s a style of execution, I’ve heard of, where a prisoner is chained in a cave along the shore, at low tide. As the tide rises, they watch, as first the water creeps in the mouth. Then their feet get wet. And the level keeps rising. When it is too deep, they stand up. And they have to wait, knowing what will happen, as the water creeps higher and higher. I imagine the games you might play. Perhaps, at first, you pretend not to think about what is happening. When it becomes unavoidable, you indulge in false hopes. Maybe, someone will come and rescue me. Maybe, this chain will break, and I will be able to escape. But there must be a point when you just begin to panic. I picture them, throat open and head all the way back, trying to get a last gasp of air before the water seals above them. I imagine they hold that air in, as long as possible, until they are forced to let it go, and inhale lungful after lungful of seawater that means it is all over. </p><p>I know, if that ever happened to me, that I wouldn’t bother to wait. As soon as the water was deep enough, I’d push all the air from my lungs and go under. I’d welcome the seawater on my own turns, without waiting for the Gods to force my hand. Because to me, those few moments are not the scary part. It is the hours of panic before that are when I would truly suffer. </p><p>I let the air out of my lungs, and I feel calm. No, not calm, I feel numb. Or really, I don’t feel. I can see my body, lying on my bed, as if I am watching it from above. Like it is a puppet, in a show for children that has gone on too long.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Rocks, and other pointy things</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW!!! Suicidal ideation, including verbal allusions to specific methods (again, cross my heart that no lesbians die). We'll get back to the fluff soon, I promise.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I get out of bed, and stand in the middle of my room. “For the last time,” I hear, as if narration in my head. I feel like I should do something ceremonious. There is a moment of doubt— I could just lie down again, and try to sleep this off. But I know it is like the cave. And I do not want to wake up with water up to my neck.</p><p>As I get out my window, I am still deciding how. Dying by the sword would be poetic, but the one I have is too dull to be very effective. And doing this halfway is not an option. I like the idea of falling, because it seems a little like flying. And with the cliffs and the water, the chances of it not working are very low. Plus, no point in leaving a mess. </p><p>It is cold and the wind blows my hair into my mouth. The sky is grey, and I can’t tell what time it is. I don’t think anyone will miss me much. I know where I am headed. The highest point on the island, that faces east, toward my home. </p><p>“Bel?”</p><p>Pyrrha— no, Achilles, is there, blocking my way.</p><p>“You weren’t in class. I wanted to see if you were good.”</p><p>“I’m fine, thanks” I’m surprised how easily I lie. </p><p>“I wanted to— Look I know you’re upset with me, and I’m really sorry about all that stuff.”</p><p>“It’s fine.” I want him to leave.</p><p>“I’m sorry about Deidamia. I didn’t mean for it to happen.”</p><p>“Right.”</p><p>“I want you to forgive me”<br/>I want to punch him. “All this time, I thought you were here so you could live as a girl. I thought you were being brave. But none of that is true. You’re Achilles, the Aristos Achaion, and you’re hiding here from the war.”</p><p>“I wanted to tell you.”</p><p>“Then you should have fucking told me”</p><p>“I didn’t want you to hate me”</p><p>“I hated you the moment you fucked the girl I— you fucked Deidamia and then chucked her aside when you’d had your fill.”</p><p>“That wasn’t— look, my mother is a Goddess” </p><p>“Thetis, I’m aware O ‘best of the greeks.’ Being half-God doesn’t give you permission to be an asshole.”</p><p>“That’s not— look, have you ever tried denying the will of a Goddess?” </p><p>“So you fucked her because your mommy told you to?” </p><p>“Honestly, yes.”</p><p>“Then you’re more of a coward than I already thought you were.”</p><p>“Look, I did what I had to do.”</p><p>I feel too tired to be angry any longer. This conversation is not the way I meant to spend my last earthly hours.</p><p>“Okay, I forgive you.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“I forgive you. Now can you get out of my way?” </p><p>He takes a step closer. I try to keep my face neutral as his eyes bore into mine.</p><p>“Where are you going?”</p><p>“A walk.”</p><p>“What’s wrong with your eyes?”</p><p>“Nothing”</p><p>“They look off. Are you okay?”</p><p>Something shakes my composure. Some rogue part of me that isn’t yet done with this world gets through, and takes over my tongue.</p><p>“I think I’m going to kill myself”</p><p>He grabs my arm.</p><p>“I’ll throw myself off the cliff. If the impact doesn’t kill me, the sea will finish the job.”</p><p>He looks scared. He looks like my words have hurt him. “Don’t.”</p><p>I notice I am crying. Weird. There is a warm hand on my shoulder, guiding me down to the grass. I feel very light, and empty. </p><p>“I slept with Deidamia. Just this morning. But she hates me now. And I hate dancing, and I’m really not good at it. And when I finally get through this drudgery, I’ll go home and get married off to some man. And I’d have to sleep with him and have his children, which is absolutely not happening. So, what’s the point of hanging around and suffering?” </p><p>Maybe there isn’t one. But, you don’t know that for sure.”</p><p>“That’s supposed to make me feel better?”</p><p>“Dude, I don’t know. I know I’m supposed to be, whoever the heck everyone thinks I’m supposed to be, but at the end of the day I’m just a kid who happens to be extra good at swinging sharp metal things. And I know a thing or two about feeling like you don’t have any control where your life is headed.” </p><p>“Ha. I forgot I wasn’t the only one whose parents have an opinion about who I fuck.” </p><p>“Uncalled for. Also, when you say you slept with Deidamia?”</p><p>“I mean we, y’know. Slept together. Made love. Lesbian stuff.” </p><p>“Okay, okay, I just wanted to make sure. Because, I’m, well, I’m kinda like that too.”</p><p>“Patroclus?”</p><p>“I love him. More than anything, and I want to spend the rest of my life at his side. I’ve never been able to tell anyone that before.”</p><p>I am breathing easier now, though everything feels balanced on a knife’s edge. </p><p>“What do I do now?”</p><p>“Want to go for a walk? Maybe, staying away from the cliffs?”</p><p>I let him help me stand up. We walk, together, toward the forest. Maybe there is a point, maybe there isn’t. But it looks like I’ll be sticking around long enough to find out.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I tried to write this as honestly as possible. I wrote the first chapters of this story in a notebook, last February, to distract myself while staying in a psych ward, following a suicide attempt. Writing about what happened, especially in a fictitious story, ended up being a valuable way for me to process it. </p><p>If you are feeling like this, or have felt like this, first, I know how you feel. And second, please reach out for help. If it weren't for people in my life who loved me, and stepped in when I needed it, I wouldn't be here. Also, let's freaking advocate for better mental health care, because our system needs some work. Much love, and may you all have beautiful lesbian sex with your beautiful lesbian girlfriends &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Home</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>a gentle chapter</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I wake up to soft voices. My cheek is on someone’s knee. I must be back at home, and I’ve fallen asleep in my mother’s lap. There is a blanket covering me, and I feel warm and safe.</p><p>“She seemed better after the walk, but I don’t think we should leave her alone.”</p><p>“No, for sure. The big question is how we get someone to stay with her at night.”</p><p>“I mean, some of the other girls share rooms. As long as Deidamia doesn’t make a fuss, no one’s going to care.”</p><p>“You said she knows who you are. Does she know about Troy?”</p><p>“Yeah, she figured that out.”</p><p>I sit up. I am not back home, but I still feel safe. Achilles is on my right, Patroclus on my left.</p><p>“How are you feeling?” Patroclus asks. </p><p>How do I feel? Still empty. Like something inside me has calmed down, for now, but could be back at any second. I feel a split in my brain. Half of me wants to beg them not leave me, not to trust me, to warn them about what else is inside there. The other half is the part I’m afraid of.</p><p>“Better, I think. Thank you guys.” </p><p>“Do you feel ready to head back yet?” Achilles rests his hand gently on my shoulder, in a way that makes me think of my older brother. We were born so close together that people thought we were twins when we were little. “Not every woman bears her husband such a strapping pair of sons!” old women would tell my mother, when we walked together in the village. He left the year before I did, to apprentice under a craftsman. He used to like to sit and sew with my mother and I. He was better at it than me too. I wonder if I’ll ever get to see him again. </p><p>I let myself be helped up, and we walk back toward the palace. I try to tune out the part of my brain that is working on plans for next time. I want to see my brother again, and I want to see him in this life.</p>
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<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Objects in motion</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>permanent slumber party? sword lessons? light conversations? ah, back to fluffy fanfic we are</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In order to keep Achilles’ cover, we decide it is best if Patroclus does all the manual labour, as we move Achilles’ bed into my room. That, and the best of the Greeks has a lazy streak. He drapes himself on my bed in a flowered dress, strumming his lyre, and teasing a disgruntled Patroclus, who staggers back and forth with loaded arms. The best of the Greeks is also, apparently, not a light packer.</p><p>“Dude,” I say, as Patroclus sets an overflowing chest on the ground with a satisfying thump. “Where’d you even get that many tiaras? And when were you planning on wearing them? And does that one really have an engraving on your face? With gemstones for the eyes?” </p><p>“A lady never knows when a lady may require a kickass tiara,” Achilles replies, setting down his lyre, and holding a delicate silver crown set with diamonds up to the light.</p><p>“I think a lady maybe just likes shiny things and feeling self important”</p><p>“Amen to that” Patroclus grunts, heaving in yet another box. “Just the bed left to move, but I’m not sure I carry it on my own.” </p><p>“No worries, babe, I believe in you.” Achilles has decided to put on the tiara. </p><p>“Zeus almighty. C’mon, I’ll help.” </p><p>As Patroclus and I go down the hall together, I notice Deidamia’s door is open, and her room looks empty. Not that I care. What when she hates me anyway or whatever.</p><p>“The king told me she wished to go to the mainland and visit her mother’s family. I heard from the cooks that she’s staying with a nurse on the other side of the island, until she has the child.”</p><p>“Right.”</p><p>“I don’t think she hates you. And, it wasn’t wrong, what you did. You can’t choose who you fall in love with.” </p><p>“I really do respect that, coming from a guy running errands for his vain, lazy boyfriend with way too many clothes.” <br/>Patroclus laughs. “I didn’t know you were funny. You always seemed so intense and serious, and, like, earlier today, with, I mean, sorry, I didn’t mean to—”</p><p>“It’s cool.”</p><p>We hoist the bed in Achilles’ room, and carry it down the hall. We set it in my room, against the opposite wall. </p><p>“Not bad,” I say. Patroclus goes to make Achilles’ bed, as I head over to the pile of boxes and baskets and chests that has taken over at least half of our floor space. Something in an inconspicuous woven basket catches my eye. </p><p>I probably should have anticipated that my new friends would not react well to the suicidal girl holding up a sword. I did not. I grabbed the leather sheath, and pulled out the finely sharpened bronze. It was heavy, but well balanced. It felt as natural an extension of my arm as my hand itself.</p><p>Achilles stopped playing and jumped to his feet. </p><p>“Bel, stay calm, and put that down.” </p><p>“What? This sword is sick. Where was it forged?” </p><p>Oh. That is not awe of how cool I look with a sword I am reading in their eyes. That is, my friend is going to hurt herself, and I don’t know how to stop her. Shucks. I quickly put the sword back in its sheath, and Achilles snatches it away.</p><p>“Sorry, I forgot about that whole, y’know, thing. I actually was just excited to see a real sword. The one I’ve been using is like, a totally different class of objects” </p><p>“The one you’ve been using?” </p><p>I feel my skin heating up. Something about confessing to the greatest warrior of my generation that I like to pretend sword-fight by myself feels a little, well, embarrassing.</p><p>“Sometimes, in the mornings, I sneak out and run. And afterwards, I follow along with the cadets, while they do their sword training. I, it’s silly, but I think it would be really cool if I could learn to fight.”</p><p>Patroclus is grinning. “First, you are literally the coolest person I’ve ever met. And second, if you want to learn to fight...”</p><p>Achilles turns the sheath, so the handle is back toward my hand. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance, apprentice. Achilles, son of Peleus, at your service.”</p>
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<a name="section0010"><h2>10. What we are fighting for</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Watching Achilles hold a sword makes you forget that fighting is about killing people. His grace and precision makes it look like a dance. Watching Beltis hold a sword does not look like dancing. Then again, I was never much of a dancer. The weapon in my hand is clearly a weapon, and my movements are wild and intense, if slowly becoming more efficient under Achilles’s tutelage. Patroclus will come and watch us, but he does not join in. Lately, he’s taken to making flower chains, which he ceremoniously bestows on us once we finish our training.</p><p>This is, finally, something I am good at. Achilles gives me techniques and skills, drills and simulations, and I fly through them as fast as he can dream them up. I am still, clearly, no match for him in battle, but it takes longer for him to defeat me every day.</p><p>I will not lie. Sword fighting is not a cure for what has been happening inside my head. Some weeks, I have days where I cannot get out of bed. Bad thoughts still come, and I get a funny dizzy feeling every time I go near a cliff. But I’m not dealing with it alone anymore. On days I can’t go to class, Patroclus will stay with me, and try to coax me out to walk in the forest with him. At night, when I cannot sleep, Achilles stays up and plays his lyre. I wonder, sometimes, whether I am deserving of such friends. But if they think I am worth all this trouble, maybe I can let myself believe that they are right.</p><p>Spring goes into summer goes into fall. My bad days are now few and far between. Achilles and I train every day, and my arms get strong and my reflexes get quick. We are now beyond the days of learning how to hold and swing the sword, and the training now is all tactics, strategy and creativity.</p><p>Sometimes Patroclus will join in, though he insists on hand to hand only, and the two of us will gang up against Achilles. Against any other opponent, Patroclus would probably be more of a hindrance than a help, but he knows Achilles better than Achilles knows himself. Usually, no one wins those scrappy matches, that devolve very quickly into a giggling dogpile.</p><p>What if I could keep the story suspended here? Forget about the war, forget about being heroes. We could stay here, on this island, in this moment when we were together and safe and happy. What is there to fight for, when we have already everything we need? What if there were no meddling Gods and no legends to fulfil? So what if his fate has been written in the stars, and sung by poets. This time, things could be different. This time, he could make a different choice. Why do we listen to a story again, if not because we believe that this time, it could end differently?</p>
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